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There was no mercy in them, and they did not fear God. They would take a cross from an altar or wrest the last farthing from a starving widow with equal indifference. That was what made them valuable to John, who could do neither. From a distance, he could order the widow's property confiscated or the cross to be torn down, but he could not put his hand to such work. |
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The drink-muddled train of thought had brought Salisbury back to the danger of mentioning Simon Lemagne's death. It was Ian de Vipont who had told Salisbury that Simon's marriage had displeased John, who had planned to give the woman Simon married to another man. Ian wished to marry her himself now that Simon was dead, largely, Salibury thought, to protect her children, who were the heirs to a very large property. Ian loved those children as if they were his own; he was never done talking of them, and he feared that another man might be tempted to deprive them of their rights or even, to enrich himself or his own children, do away with them. The letter Salisbury mentioned had been from the widow. It was a stupid thing to bring her into John's mind. Salisbury giggled drunkenly. For once he had reason to be grateful for Fulk's jealous spite, which would leave Salisbury no credit for anything in his brother's eyes. In Fulk's desire to deprive Salisbury of the honor of planning a successful assault, he had said what was most likely to divert the king's mind from Simon's widow. |
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While Salisbury's mind was in the past, however, the fulsome praise of the king had come to an end, and the end, unfortunately, brought Simon's name back into the conversation. |
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"He is no loss," John agreed, and he smiled. |
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It was a pleasant smile, if one did not look into John's eyes. The king was not an unhandsome man. He was growing stout, but that was characteristic of the body shape he had inherited from his father: short and very broad, with enormous strength. His coloring |
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